Unwanted
by Another Writer Who Loves
Summary: Canon divergence of 10x21 in which Sam is the one to die instead of Charlie. Heaven doesn't want him, hell is afraid he's going to take over and Sam just wants to try to figure out what to do and whether or not life is better than death.
1. Chapter 1

The silence of the motel was practically a blessing after the constant fighting and squabbling that had overcame the barn where they had made their base.

Maybe it was boredom but Rowena had practically made it her mission to drive Charlie up the walls. She was almost begging to be shot.

And by God Sam was tempted.

So he had to get out of there. The atmosphere was stifling and they weren't able to get any work done. It had almost felt like he couldn't breathe there and if he hadn't known any better and hadn't chained Rowena himself he would've sworn that the witch had performed some sort of spell to create the more and more tension between all of them.

Heaving a great sigh Sam leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, they were heavy with exhaustion and it took more work to keep them open than it did to just let them close for a few moments. Every time they started to slowly droop down he would jerk himself awake and shake his head, trying to refocus on what he was doing.

Between all of these late nights going behind Deans back, getting materials for Rowena; he had sworn that she had been screwing with him when she said she had needed chicken feet, a rats liver, and exactly forty nine daisies if she hadn't done the locating spell right in front of him, and combined with all those sleepless nights where Deans screams would jolt him awake he was more than a bit surprised that he hadn't collapsed out of pure tiredness than anything else.

All those nights that Dean would have nightmares, screaming himself hoarse as it filled the bunker Sam would be right there in the hallway. He would spend those countless hours just outside of Dean's room, curled up and pressed against the door. Every time he would submit himself to this punishment, torturing himself by listening to the screams. He didn't have the courage yet to confront or even talk to Dean about the nightmares, not yet daring; but always wanting more than anything to go into the room with his brother, wrap his arms around him and offer him some sort of comfort, however little it might be.

In the end he was always too afraid to enter Dean's room. Too afraid of letting Dean know that he had caught his brother in such a moment of weakness. Too afraid of being rejected and hating himself for not having the courage to go inside despite it all.

His phone vibrated again, drawing his attention momentarily from the brightness of his laptop screen to the smaller brightness of his cell phone.

Cas was calling him, again. Shaking his head he pressed a button on the side of the phone to stop the call.

"Not now Cas." Sam mumbled under his breath. "Not now."

He let his phone slip back into his pocket and reached out to snag the coffee cup at his side.

Tipping the remains of the coffee, now a cold almost tasteless sludge, into his mouth he grimaced slightly at the taste and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before lightly throwing the cup into the small trash can beside the desk and he focused on his laptop once more.

Search after search. Rune after rune into every system he could think of. Try and try again.

No match found.

No search found with these words.

Please refine your search and try again.

Sam sighed as he clicked out of the latest 'Did you mean' window and blearily wished he had the bunkers library to help him. Or at the very least he wished Bobby was still here. He had a feeling that the older hunter would've been able to help.

Or at the very least smack the both of them for being 'idjits' and maybe smack Dean hard enough to throw the Mark off of him.

The thought made him smile slightly but it quickly fell as he thought more about Bobby and how he has no idea what happened to him after breaking Metatron out from heaven. He had tried to ask Cas about what might've happened but the angel didn't answer, he wouldn't even look Sam in the eye.

That was enough of an answer and it turned his stomach. He tried not to think about it for the time being, trying to focus on one thing at a time.

Sam ran his tongue over his teeth, dimly wishing for more coffee but not willing to face the downpour outside for it as he raised both hands to the computer once more and tried to think what else to type into the search engine.

His phone vibrated once more. Habit and instinct got him to bring it out of his pocket and he reflexively glanced at the caller id before freezing and feeling his stomach sink down.

Dean was calling him.

Sam bit down on his bottom lip as he tried to gather all the courage he had, his thumb hovering over the green touchscreen button.

Letting out a deep breath Sam slid his thumb over the screen and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hey Dean." he said softly in greeting.

"What the hell are you thinking?" Dean almost snarled at him in lieu of a greeting.

Sam closed his eyes, so Cas or Charlie or even both had called Dean in the hopes that he could get him to come back or at least check to make sure that he was alive. "Trying to save you." he shot back.

"Not like this." Dean practically growled. "Now with this book and not by bringing Charlie into this. How the hell can you do that Sam? After everything we've seen with this book and after everything she's been through with it how can you bring her back into this?"

"She's doing this for the same reason I am Dean." Sam told him, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She loves you and she's willing to do whatever it takes to get that Mark off of you, just like I am."

"Not like this." Dean said firm as stone and just as unmoving. "Not with this book and especially not something that have the literal damn Frankenstein's after it!" his anger was practically radiating through the phone. "Now tell me where the hell you are."

"Not until I figure out how to save you." Sam said just as firmly before he ended the call and let his phone fall to his desk before burying his face in his hands.

He had hated this, going behind Deans back like this, but now that it was out in the open it didn't make it a single bit better.

Sam shook his head, letting his hair fly slightly before straightening up in his seat and focusing on his notes.

He could live with Dean being angry with him, so long as he was angry with the Mark off of his arm.

And the sooner, the better.

Rubbing his eyes once more he picked up his pen and dragged the notes to him, eyes flickering from his papers to his laptop periodically.

The only sounds that filled the room was the scratches of his pen against paper, his fingers against his mouse and keyboard, and the vibrations of his phone against the desk as Cas, Charlie, and Dean continued to call.

He ignored each call, after a while he just turned the vibration off completely and occasionally the glow from the calls would divert his eyes to the phone for a moment before going back to the computer.

Heaving another sigh Sam got out of his chair and stretched, forcing his muscles to wake up and move. He rubbed his right shoulder, ever since it had gotten banged up because of that demon months ago when he and Cas had searched for Dean it always ached with the bad weather.

Standing up and stretching out his legs Sam couldn't help but give a small smirk. He was used to being thrown around like a rag doll. Against walls and to the ground, into almost everything, anything, anyone, and anything else in between. And he was complaining about a small sprain because of a demon. God he sounded old.

Stepping into the small bathroom he went to the sink and turned it on, for once thankful that a motel had a bad heating system. Warm water always made him more tired than anything. He placed his hands under the spray and enjoyed the cool feeling for a moment before cupping his hands together and letting the water gather before bowing down and washing his face. After doing that a few times he got another handful of water once more and ran it through his hair, closing his eyes to enjoy the cool sensation. The water droplets trailed down his face slowly as he reached out and took a thin towel from the rack on the side. Turning the faucet off he patted his hands and face dry, running the towel through his hair as well. Straightening up he glanced almost reflexively at the mirror and froze.

He didn't just sound old. He _looked_ old. His lips parted slightly as he took his reflection in. He had lines at the corner of his eyes which he had thought had been from the sleepless nights and stress but with a start he realized he had seen them way before the whole mess with Dean being a demon and the whole Mark business.

He ran his fingers through his now slightly damp hair and grimaced, he could see more than one, more than a few even, gray hairs littered around the strands.

He was old, Sam realized. He was only thirty two, nearing thirty three rather quickly a part of his mind told him, and he was old. At least for someone being in the hunting community their entire life, thirty two was considered old.

Sam slowly and almost mechanically placed the towel back on the rack, his eyes flickering back to the mirror as he did.

The job ages you, how many times had he heard that and from how many people?

And how many of those people were now dead?

Sam walked back to the other room in a bit of a daze, his fingers absentmindly tugging on his hair as he thought. His mind racing as he suddenly and slowly realized a few things.

Namely his body. How hard it has become for it to heal faster, at least when Cas wasn't there to heal them. How his body ached at the end of the day and how long it took to shake off the tiredness and sluggishness out of his body. He thought about how his entire body was starting to get slower to react now in comparison to how it used to be. He remembered getting banged up and beaten, broken and twisted and still managing to get up and ready to go to a new hunt or outrun the police or simply keep running until he just had to go to sleep.

Now it took weeks for a simple shoulder wound to heal.

Sam continued to run his fingers through his hair; the thin graying strands that were starting to spread, down to his face; to where the beginning of wrinkles he didn't even realize were there until that moment, and down to his chest where his heart was slowly beating.

God he really was getting old.

He's only thirty two.

Sam glanced down and brought his hands up to look at them. Calloused and worn, bending slightly inwards towards the palm. The scar on his palm remained from his time with the Lucifer hallucination, healed but still jagged and slightly risen from the other skin. Sometimes it would even get caught on the handle of a gun of knife, occasionally tearing if he would move it off too fast. Those moments he would always be reminded of Lucifer's hallucinations and trying his best to avoid them, his head would almost automatically swirl around to catch the fading hallucination almost on instinct and to settle the sudden pit in his stomach as his palm burst with pain. His hands were wrinkled slightly as well, reminding him for a moment of Bobby's hands.

He is getting old and the job was getting to him.

He brought his hands down back to his sides and slowly walked over to the desk once more, gingerly, slowly and carefully, sat back down in his chair.

If this was how he felt how did Dean feel, he couldn't help but wonder. His brother was four years older than him, four years was a hell of a lot for the supernatural hunting community, and didn't he feel the weight of those years?

He knew Dean wasn't as fast as he used to be either, he tended to groan and complain about bruises and aches, more so than he had done before back when he was trying to be annoying or gather some sort of sympathy to get his way. He would see him rubbing his right knee sometimes and Sam would know that a storm, thunder; not demons, would hit them soon, there were lines at the corner of Deans eyes that had deepened and became more visible with every expression; not just when his eyes crinkled when he smiled, and although he would never say it to Deans face his brother was getting slightly pudgy around his stomach.

Neither of them were those young bright eyed hunters in their twenties anymore that were ready to throw themselves into the supernatural and come out swinging.

They were in their thirties, just how big a difference a mere ten years would make, and while just as willing to face the worlds evil together they were just as possible not to come out of it not because the monster was too powerful but because they weren't as fast as they used to be.

He picked up his pen and placed it in between his fingers as if he was going to start writing again but couldn't even begin to use it once more. His mind was too heavy with everything he was slowly realizing to even think of picking up his research for a few more minutes.

For a moment he remembered the talk he had had with Charlie, it already felt like years ago not days ago. Telling her how he had gotten back into the hunting after Jessica had died.

It almost felt like a dream, as if everything that had happened was a blur, still as painful but at the same time so very distant, as if it had happened more than just ten years ago. It almost felt like a hundred years ago if not more.

Maybe his time in the cage had damaged his perception of time more than he originally thought.

He had told Charlie that sentence; one more job, one more job. It had become something like a mantra for these ten long almost infinitely longer years.

One more job.

How much had they sacrificed for this job? How many friends and family had sacrificed themselves for this job? How much did they have to give up and still more was demanded forcing them to get up, dust themselves off, and move on to the next one?

For a moment he felt as if he was on the edge of the hole to Lucifer's cage once more, ready to jump in and condemn himself to save the world.

Only to be taken out and placed back into the real world and back on the hunting road.

One more job.

He thought to his older and aching body, he thought about the gray hair and the wrinkles. And as with all his thoughts they ultimately went to his brother.

His brother with his slower reflexes, his slightly pudgy tummy, the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, and the Mark on his arm that persisted and tried to drown his brother in it again and again, tugging harder as Dean resisted, that had already succeeded in drowning his brother once and wouldn't stop until it took him away from Sam once more.

One more Job. Just trapped in an endless cycle of jobs and hunting and sacrifice.

Sam let out a small breath. Endless, unless someone broke it.

He could...he could break it, stop the hunting and stop the danger. Focus on the research aspect, providing alibis and a support system. Like Bobby had done, pretend to be the higher ups when people would call to confirm a hunters story and give the necessary information to end the hunt and save the innocent.

There were also more and more young hunters popping out with each year, or maybe it was just him being old again, and some of them were just unprepared for what was really out there.

They, he and Dean, could help them. Give them support, teach and train them hell; maybe even give them a safe place to call if not home then at least a safe house.

The bunker was more than big enough for all those needs. It was one of the safest places in the world, more than enough to be able to house hunters and provide them a setting where they could let their guards down and focus on themselves without having to worry about the wards or looking over their shoulder or sleeping with a knife or gun under their pillows. A safe place for hunters to learn, train, and heal, help them form some sort of connection and comradeship.

And not just hunters either, they could restart the Men of Letters, however they might have to make it People of Letters or some other gender neutral name to bring it up to the times. There had to be people interested in being a part of and helping with the supernatural without wanting to hunt.

And he and Dean could help guide and build a new system, a better system.

Dean would be tough to convince of course, he would never truly admit he was getting on the years, adamant that he was as young as ever, and would most likely try to cling to hunting as much as he could. Sam knew that when Dean was younger he had wanted to go out in the blaze of glory of the hunt but he hoped that his brother had moved on from that.

He could bring up the idea, let Dean think about the concept for a few days before mentioning it again. Maybe start to push at it a bit more after bringing it up twice.

Or maybe Dean wouldn't even need the prodding, maybe he was just as tired as Sam felt. Maybe they could finally retire the active hunting, sit back, and let the next generation have its chance to save and make their mark on the world.

After they get the Mark of Cain off of Dean's arm.

Sam's eyes cleared, he sat up straighter in his seat, and gripped his pen a bit tighter as he pulled his notes to him once more, intent on finishing it.

He is thirty two, almost thirty three years old.

And this is his last job.

He wasn't sure how long he worked for this time, invigorated by a new fire and desire. He wanted more than to just save his brother now, he was looking farther than that. He wanted him and Dean to work together to a better future.

His phone continued to light up, a multitude of calls and texts from all three of them. He ignored each and every one of them, he had to focus on this and only this.

Suddenly an almost bone chilling voice was heard in the air and just a few feet away from his door.

"I know you're in there boy!" yelled out the Stynes voice. Sam jumped as a crack appeared on his door from the other man's attempt to kick it down. He jumped out of his seat and automatically pushed his desk in front of the door before grabbing his phone and laptop. He ran into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind him. Taking the laptop in hand he smashed it against the sink, he hadn't had gotten far with his notes and translations but he wasn't going to take a chance; he had pictures of the book on his laptop and he wanted to keep as much information away from them as possible, while his other hand dialed Charlies number.

"Sam where are you?" Charlie immediately demanded, picking up before the first ring even ended.

"No time, I need to know." Sam said in a rush. "Were you able to crack the code?"

"Yes, I did."

Relief. Pure, simple, unadulterated relief coursed through him that couldn't be broken, even from the sound of splintering wood from the other room as the Styne was doing his best and succeeding to break down the door. Despite what would happen in the next few minutes, regardless of whatever happened in the next few minutes, he was content in the fact that the translation was going to be done and Dean was going to be saved; one way or another.

"Sam what was that?" Charlie asked, panic starting to cloud her voice.

"Blackbird motel. The Stynes found me." Sam said, flinching slightly as the wood continued to crack. "Thank you Charlie, for everything. Save Dean, please."

He ended the call just as Charlie started to say something and called Dean just as he heard the door break down. He glanced around the room for a moment, his mind going at the interior of his motel room. Just the front where the Styne was and a small window he had no hope of even trying to fit through in the bathroom. He had nowhere to go.

"Sammy where are you?" Dean's worried voice filled him completely and despite everything he couldn't help but smile.

"Blackbird motel. The Stynes found me." Sam repeated.

He heard Dean's sharp intake of air. "Give them what they want Sammy, just give it to him. It's not worth it."

A hopeless laugh escaped his lips. "Don't have it Dean, don't have anything." he glanced at the remains of his laptop on the ground as he could hear the desk being pushed away outside. "Charlie cracked the code, she can save you."

"Forget that!" Dean snapped at him. He could hear the impala's engine roaring and felt a pang in his heart for the first home he had known. "Just hold him off alright? Or get out if you can. I'm coming Sammy, just hold him off!"

"I love you big brother." Sam said, unable to keep his voice from wavering. "And I'm so sorry Dean, for everything."

"Sammy!" was the last thing he heard from the phone before he ended the call, letting the phone slip through his fingers and clatter to the floor just as the bathroom door shook in its frame.

He straightened up and drew his knife, he didn't even have his gun with him, he had taken it out and placed it on the bed; just a simple knife, just as the door was forced out of its hinges and opened. The Styne walked in, his figure filling the doorway completely, not even a small possibility of getting past his side or anywhere or anyway around him.

"I don't have it." Sam told him, bringing his knife and hand up, curling it into a fist. "And I'm ready to fight to the end if I have to."

Thunder cracked through the air, illuminating the Styne as he grinned, all teeth and malice and for a moment Sam saw the monster Mary Shelly had tried to warn the world about. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

Unnoticed by the both of them Death stood in the corner, both hands on top of his cane, watching the scene unfold in front of him with a blank expression on his face.

* * *

Dean cursed to himself as his tires and brakes squealed over the wet ground. Without bothering to turn the engine off, gun already in hand he jumped out of the car and took off running, rain splattering his face as he blinked away the drops. He was dimly aware of another set of headlights illuminating the area as well as Castiels and Charlies voices merged as they called out "Dean!" to him. He ignored them, his attention solely on the broken in door of the motel room just a few feet away.

"Sam!" practically exploded from his mouth as he ran into the room, stale and metallic air practically choking him. A corner of his mind noted Cas and Charlie following him in but his attention was only on the bloody footprints leading from the bathroom.

His legs felt as if they were filled with lead but he still forced himself to move towards the bathroom, noting the door had been ripped out and thrown to the side.

The metallic air was heaviest in the bathroom and he felt as if he couldn't even hope to breathe there. Blood liberally covered every surface of the room, from the tiles on the wall to the sink and mirror, splatters of it was everywhere as if the source of the blood had put up a hell of a fight and had been trashed around the room, it was on the floor and a knife that had been snapped in two and pieces of a laptop were practically covered completely.

He could barely hear Charlies scream or Cas's words as his eyes locked on the bathtub. Limbs askew, clothes torn, they were blood stained to such a degree he could barely make out what they used to be or what color they had been before the red and completely wound covered, looking as if they had been thrown into the tub lazily, carelessly and with not a single sense of interest or care was

"Sammy?"

 **I don't own Supernatural.**


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley paid no attention to the demon that had brought the tray out and placed it on the table between them. He did, however, pay attention to how the demons gaze strayed on the souls for longer than he should have.

Crowley cleared his throat and gave the demon, he didn't know his name but resolved to learn all of the demons under his rule names. The demon averted his eyes and stepped away.

He also saw how the demon still glanced over his shoulder and tried to settle his suddenly turning stomach.

Sighing to himself and resolving to make things a bit more personal with the demons he leaned forward and started to prepare his tea just the way he liked it, two sugars and a small finger of milk.

"I know you would probably prefer coffee." he said to the soul. "But I can't stand the stuff so I don't keep any here."

There was no answer and in all honesty Crowley hadn't expected one, the kid hadn't said a single word the entire time.

He prepared a second cup, not entirely sure how to make it but in the end just making it the same as his own. He eyed the chains around the soul's wrists and the attached weights at his feet, with another sigh he stood up and placed the soul's hands, they were already clasped on his lap and the cup fit perfectly.

Taking his seat once more Crowley picked up his cup and took a long sip, wishing for a moment that he could add more scotch to it; but in doing so he would ruin the tea, and then took a long look at the soul.

His clothes were tattered and torn, the chains that were wrapped around him were practically pulsing. There were more chains on the weights on his ankles and wrists to help pull and slow him down even more. He firmly placed his own mental blocks up more to ensure that the emotions practically radiating from the weights didn't affect him.

The white cup in his hands were a stark contrast to the rest of him and Crowley heaved another sigh.

"So," he said, getting comfortable in his seat. "Care to explain what happened?"

The soul of Sam Winchester finally looked up at him with hooded eyes.

* * *

Dean blinked, and then blinked again, and then a third time.

Sensations slowly came back to him, piece by piece. First his hands, which were aching and burning in a very family way. The feeling he would get on hunts after punching something repeatedly. His knuckles felt sore and bruised to hell, a sharp pain whenever he twitched them told him that they were torn as well. Something almost felt like it was digging into his knuckles and he absentmindly dug at it as he slowly got to his feet. His knees felt scratched and aching as if he had been kneeling on them for a long time.

However surprisingly his legs were steady as he slowly walked through the room towards the door, his fingers digging almost insistently into his knuckles to get whatever was lodged in there out. He didn't pay attention to his surroundings and as such it wasn't really a surprise when he tripped over something on the ground.

Stumbling slightly he accidentally pushed the thing deeper into his skin and gave a hiss at the sharp pain. He glanced down automatically to see what he had tripped over and then froze.

The thing he had tripped on was the remains of a human body, more specifically the abdomen because one arm had been torn off, the leg was hanging on by the last remains of muscle and skin, and the neck had been twisted to almost a completely circle, the bone peeking out under the skin.

What grabbed his attention the most however was the person's chest. It had been cut open and flagged out, exposing every bone and muscle in it. Organs, more than should be in a person, had been torn out by hand it almost seemed. Torn and ripped out and then meaninglessly thrown to the ground around the destroyed remains.

His eyes roamed over the body as he took in the details of the murder. He barely paid attention to the tattoo on the inside of the wrist of the arm that was still attached but focused mainly on the face.

It was the Styne that had been after Charlie and the one that they had taken to their dungeon, the only one to know their faces.

And therefore, the only logical choice in being the one that killed his little brother.

Dean's hand began to shake and his arm started to burn. Disregarding the fact that the thing was already dead he stepped forward, intent on ripping the thing apart more when a whimpering sound filled his ears and he practically snapped his neck to look at the source.

A boy, no older than eighteen, was on the ground, clutching at his arm and his chest lightly scratched up, his body slightly bruised but otherwise unharmed. Dean distantly remembered pulling the kids arm hard enough to dislocate the shoulder and then let go when he saw no tattoos. He also almost recalled cutting the boys shirt and opening it to reveal no operation scars on his chest. The kid had his good hand up covering his mouth as he realized that the sound he had made, voluntarily or involuntarily, had drawn Dean's attention back to him.

Dean brought his head up and his eyes locked with the kids for a moment, long enough for Dean to realize the shape of the kid's eyes were the same as the thing that had killed Sammy.

The thought was enough for his Mark to burn, his vision to turn red, and before he knew what he was doing he had strode forward and grabbed the boy by the throat, squeezing it tight.

The boy choked, his good arm coming up to try to budge or at least to claw at Deans arm as he desperately gasped for air. His hazel eyes which were the same shape of-

Hazel eyes.

A mop of brown hair, dimples with a grin, hazel eyes twinkling.

Just as suddenly as he had grabbed the boy he let go, breathing hard and tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.

Hazel eyes filled with tears as they looked up at him, too afraid to even speak, looking at him pleadingly; begging wordlessly for his life. No tattoos, no scars on his chest. Not like those other monsters.

But he could be, a cold voice which almost sounded like Cain, spoke to him in his mind. He has their blood, he has their lineage; he could turn at a random moment and become a monster just like the rest of them.

Hazel eyes stared up at him, bruises on the neck and chest, dislocated shoulder, broken glasses barely hanging to his face to reveal those cursed hazel eyes which just wouldn't look away from him and kept him pinned in place.

"Three minutes." he said, his voice gruff and barely audible, foreign even to him, and the words not making any sense. "You have three minutes, and then I'm burning this place down."

The hazel eyes widened and the boy nodded, rapidly and gratefully. Dean stepped slightly to the side and the boy quickly scurried past him, running with his useless arm dangling at his side. Dean could hear his loud pounding footsteps on the stairs and then he moved to the cabinets and started to search through them; gathering rubbing alcohol, ethanol, and anything else he could find into a small pile at the side.

He counted off the seconds in his head as he took the bottles and opened them, pouring the contents all over the ground and onto the walls and furniture. He grabbed the rest of the bottles and left the so called first aid room, systematically pouring the rest of the contests as he walked.

Walking through the room a corner of his mind realized and acknowledged the various bodies littered around the rooms and through the hallways. Men and women, each one bearing the tattoo and the chest scars, each one dead, some of them torn apart, some simply shot.

Reaching the first floor he shook out the last bottle and threw it to the side, reaching into his pocket and digging out a pack of matches. He ripped one match free and was about to strike it against the book when footsteps caught his attention once more. Glancing up he saw the boy with the hazel eyes gripping a large duffle bag in his good hand. He froze when he saw Dean standing there, just staring up at him.

Disinterested Dean turned his attention back to his matches, just as the boy regained his courage and ran the rest of the way, past Dean and to the side, not the front door as Dean had expected. Not caring anymore Dean stroked the match, lighting it on fire and bringing it up to the top of the other matches, causing them to light on fire as well.

He threw the book into the small pile of liquid at his side and immediately the fire grew and rapidly spread along the spills, just as the sound of a car's engine and the squeal of tires on the ground reached his ears. The boy with the hazel eyes had gotten away.

Dean watched for a few moments to make sure that the fire caught and spread properly before turning away and leaving the house to burn behind him. He walked to where he had hidden the impala and got back into the car, turning the engine on and driving away. The Stynes house nothing more than a fading image in his rear view mirror.

He stared straight ahead, systematically tightening and releasing the steering wheel. His head would twitch to the side and the Mark on his arm would throb rhythmically, and something was still digging into his knuckles.

Keeping that hand on the wheel his other hand went back to the irritating part on his knuckles and tried to dig into the small area.

The Stynes were dead, the one that had killed his little brother was dead. Justice had been served, too little and too late a corner of his mind told him, but justice nonetheless.

Dean felt his fingers snag on whatever it was that had lodged itself in his hand. Gripping it in between two fingers he pulled it out, finally getting rid of the pain. He moved it into his hand and glanced down at it.

A bloodied tooth sat in the middle of his palm

* * *

Dean flicked the light on automatically as he entered the bunker. He blinked at the bright light and looked around the kitchen. Every time he came back from somewhere he would pause in the doorway and look around, hoping that something had changed since he had left, that someone would be here.

Or someone would come back and be there waiting for him.

Seeing that nothing had changed Dean heaved a heavy sigh and continued forward. Empty bottles were littered across the counters with dirty glasses stacked on top of one another. He grabbed a clean glass from the cupboard and a quarter full bottle by the neck. Taking another deep breath he started towards his room.

The coldness hit him first as he turned the corner, a deep cold that got worse with each step he took. He ran his fingers through his hair and ruffled it as ice started to grow and spread, making the smell pieces fall to the ground. He shook the bottle so the contents wouldn't freeze and finally he reached his door.

His breath appeared in the air and he shook his head before reaching out and opening the door.

It was the coldest in his room, a fresh blast of cold air hit him and he had to blink back the moisture in his eyes. There were two sources of lights in the room, one of them were the runes that were carefully painted on the walls which would occasionally flare up and the room would momentarily freeze a few more degrees before calming down once more.

The second source were the candles that Dean was slowly lighting and placing around the room, no real pattern, rhyme, or reason to their placements. Finally he took a deep breath and turned to complete the last part of the ritual.

There, laying on his bed, arms crossed over his chest and laying above the covers was Sammy.

Or at least Sammy's body, preserved in the cold of the room and as still as anything. He had to fight Cas and Charlie for him. The both of them had wanted to take the body from him and burn it, a proper hunter's burial. When they protested and resisted his vision had gone red and he couldn't remember the next few minutes but it ended with him carrying his brother to his car and had kept him in Dean's room ever since they had gotten back home, keeping it as fresh as possible for his return.

The candles helped, the candles made it seem as if he wasn't really that pale, the flickering lights almost making it look as if his chest was moving, he knew logically that it was just the shadows playing tricks but the was willing to ignore that. He moved the bottle again, needing to shake it a bit more vigorously to break up the ice that had slowly started to spread in the liquid, and then opened it. He poured some into his glass and sipped it slowly, his eyes on the immobile body on his bed.

The same thing he's been doing all this time for as long as Sammy had been dead.

"They're dead." he suddenly said, his voice rough and barely there. "All of 'em. Every last Styne." He remembered something then. "Except one, a kid." he added, pouring more into his glass and sipping from it. "He was a kid, well, not a kid, kid, but," he shrugged. "Enough."

Sammy's face was clean of blood and had been ever since he brought him home but still Dean let his eyes roam over Sam's body to make sure that he got every last bit of it.

"Kiddo, I just." he ran his hand over his face, covering his eyes for a moment and then shaking his head. "I know you wouldn't have wanted what I did but Sammy, its justice." he insisted to the empty room. "There is no justice, none, if they were living and you're not." He shook his head. "None whatsoever." he repeated, draining his glass and refilling it.

He reached out with his left hand and ran his fingers through Sammy's hair, giving a small humorless smirk. "Almost didn't recognize you in the bathtub Sammy, almost thought it was a woman. You need to cut your hair, it's practically a hazard by now."

There was no answer, of course there was no answer, there wasn't going to be an answer unless everything worked and everything slipped into their right pieces.

A few more seconds passed in silence before he couldn't take it anymore and started to talk to try to fill it. "Crowley is being a bitch like usual, he's not answering my calls or my summoning's. And I made it clear that Cas isn't to even try to contact me unless he has a way to bring you back. Neither of them are calling, or at least with Cas he's not calling with the right answers, assholes the both of them."

"You're not going to like any of it actually." he continued. "When you get back you're not going to like what I did to get you back. The thing is...as long as your back, I can live with it. Hate me all you want, just be here with me and hate me."

His voice started to crack and he bowed his head, fighting the urge to start crying for the first time in a very long time.

"Just come back Sammy."

* * *

Castiel let out a sigh as he placed his phone down on the table, rubbing at his eyes. "He's still not answering." he told her.

Charlie placed her tablet pen down softly and sighed, slumping in her chair. "Maybe I should go there, we know he's in the bunker." she suggested.

He shook his head. "We don't know what kind of state of mind he's in." he said. "For all we know you'll take one step in the bunker and he'll kill you."

Charlie flinched at the notion, one arm curling around her stomach as if she felt an imaginary blade already buried there.

Castiel nodded. "For the time being we need to just stay away but not to cut contact. We need-" he was cut off by an almost twinkling laugh and turned his head to face the witch. "Did I say something amusing?"

"Oh no, nothing at all." Rowena said, sipping her tea from her paper cup. "Don't mind me child, I'm just doing my translations."

"I am a great deal older than you." Castiel informed her. "You just do as you are instructed."

"Haven't I?" Rowena asked, glancing up at them over the top of the cup. "I've been here the entire time, doing as I'm told and decoding the book." she reached out to tap the cover of the Book of the Damned with the tips of her fingers, causing the chains to clink and hit one another. "I've been nothing but agreeable."

Just staring at her seemingly innocent eyes and face made Castiels skin crawl. He fought the urge to extend his wings, as battered and bare as they were, to try to make himself bigger.

He shared a look with Charlie before turning back to the witch. "Just do as your told." he instructed before turning back to Charlie fully.

"Time isn't going to help." Charlie said after a moment, staring, almost glaring, at Rowena. "He hasn't even let us bury the body." she flinched at her own words, of categorizing Sam into just a simple body.

"Winchesters have no concept of acceptance of the others deaths, the last stage of grief is unknown to them." Castiel told her.

"He's trying to bring Sam back to life." Charlie finally said quietly.

Castiel nodded. "Since the first time, the first time Sam had been killed, the desire, the tradition I suppose, of doing whatever is possible to bring the other back has remained in notion and in the forefront of their minds."

"I read the books, I remember." Charlie said playing with the edge of her shirt. "Do you think Deans going to try to sell his soul again?"

"I would like to think that Dean has grown from that or at least demons would have enough sense to not meddle in the affairs of the Winchesters souls." Castiel said with a frown. "But I also know that grief clouds the best of judgments, especially for Sam and Dean, and that Crowley would enjoy having some sort of leverage over them, more so Dean because he has the Mark."

Charlie could barely bring her eyes up from the table top. "Where do you think Sam's soul went?" she finally managed to ask in a whisper. "I mean, he's good right? So it went to heaven, right?"

Castiel let out a deep breath as he contemplated his answer. "Sam at the core, at the very deepest part of his being, is a good person. Kind and selfless enough that he had sacrificed himself for the world without hesitation."

"I can hear a 'but' coming up."

"Heaven has viewed Sam as an abomination for quite some time." he confessed, staring at his hands, ignoring Charlies gasp. "The demon blood as a child, drinking demon blood in his later years, allowing Lucifer into his body. I have realized a long time ago that angels are very single minded and refusing to budge on their viewpoints." He curled his fingers toward his palm. "It would be simple for them to refuse entry to a soul find its heaven and if heaven does not allow entry, if the soul if not being held by anything on earth to become a spirit, reapers prevent souls from going between the edges of reality into the empty, and as a human soul purgatory has no claim on it."

Charlie's eyes widened. "You can't be...you don't mean that..."

"That as much as I would like to believe that Sam's soul is at rest in heaven, knowing my brother's and sister's as I do, there is only one other place for a soul to go to."

* * *

Later on, after he cleaned himself up and calmed his nerves he walked back down to the basement, or the dungeon, whatever the hell it was. Taking a deep breath he schooled his expression and opened the door.

Immediately terrified blue eyes snapped up and looked at him, terror clear in the orbs as he looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

Dean ignored the man for now as he came fully into the room and went to the middle of the room, kneeling down at the edge of a slightly faded summoning circle. He had kept chalk to the side and reached out to grip it in between his fingers, twirling it for a moment before reaching out and retracing the lines carefully, adding a few more runes to the empty spaces. He glanced it over and nodded, content that at least his summoning circle was perfect.

Standing up he cracked his neck from side to side and rolled his shoulders back, letting the chalk fall to the hard floor. He heard it crack slightly but paid no attention to it. The terrified gasps coming from the man filled the room and he tried to ignore it, something he that was getting easier and simpler each time that he did this to ignore the fact that he was doing something so wrong.

He focused on the Mark instead, slipping into the mindset faster and faster every time that he did this. And it was a struggle that was getting more and more difficult to come back from. When he let the Mark take control he was in a state of dispersion, removed from everything around him and not facing the pain and hurt from losing Sammy. It was almost like trying to stay afloat in a thunderstorm in the middle of the ocean with no life vest or support to cling to.

All he had was a single rope in his hand which he was clinging to with all of his might despite the fact that he had no idea where it lead but he knew that if he just kept pulling himself up by the rope he knew that Sammy was going to be alive at the end of it and that made all the difference and all the reason to cling to it despite what he would have to go through to get to that end.

Because the only other option would be to let go of the rope and to drown in the Mark and never come up again.

So with his rope, the thought and the desire to save his Sammy, firmly in hand he threw himself into the depths of the Mark and for the time being he let himself drown in the covers.

A calm descended on him when he opened his eyes once more, the Mark a pleasant burn on his arm as he walked forward to the shelves and picked up a knife, turning it in his hand as he assessed the blade. He turned to look at the man, turning the blade in his hand.

The man's breathing had gotten heavier yet quieter, his eyes locked on the knife, he had frozen in place as if hoping that if he was still Dean wouldn't notice him. A prey reacting to a predator and trying in vain to prolong its life.

Dean felt a smirk more than he did the action himself as he strode forward without preamble, reaching out to grab the man and drag him towards the circle. The man came to life and started to trash around, the gag on his lips muffling his shouts and the ropes around his arms and legs preventing him from hitting or kicking free.

He dragged the man to the circle with one arm, the other hand holding the knife tightly. Once they reached the edge he brought the man more towards into the circle and slide the knife cleanly across the throat.

The man sputtered and the blood rose up in his throat, spraying out of his mouth and down his chin and the concrete floor. Dean held him out so that the blood would fall onto the summoning circle properly. The man quickly stopped moving and as the blood stopped dropping he threw the body to the side and knelt down to light the candles one by one.

The summoning would be strengthened by the blood sacrifice, thereby making it harder for the damn demon to ignore him.

But apparently not impossible because even when Dean dropped the match into the bowl and the fire flamed a few seconds passed and no Crowley appeared.

"You son of a bitch." Dean snarled, his hand going into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. He hit redial hard enough that he was a surprised a crack didn't appear, snorting when it went to voicemail.

"Listen to me you selfish, piece of shit." Dean said lowly. "Answer the damn summons or answer the damn phone. One way or another we have a deal to make and I won't stop until you or one of your bitches answer. Fair warning."

Ending the call Dean glared down at the body and kicked at it, pushing the control of the Mark to the back of his mind as best as he could.

He had a body to get rid of, blood to clean, and a new plan to come up with.

* * *

Hours later found Charlie with her head in her arms on top of the desk, resting her eyes and her music playing in her ears. The image kept replaying in her eyes every time she closed her eyes. Sam covered in blood and crumpled in the bathtub, limbs askew and so very still and pale.

Sighing she sat up, rubbing at her eyes and accidentally catching on one of her ear buds and pulling them out. Rock music blared out on the table top until she reached into her pocket and turned it off, rolling her headphones around her iPod and tossing it to the side.

"Finally." Rowena said, wrinkling her nose and bringing Charlies attention to her. "I could barely hear myself think with that racket going on."

"I didn't ask you." Charlie said, pulling her tablet back to her. "And I needed a break."

"Touchy, touchy." Rowena tutted. "You would think that you had just had a brush with death instead of Samuel."

"Don't." Charlie said in as much of a warning tone as she could. "Don't."

Rowena let out a small almost giggle. "It'll take a lot more than that to scare me child."

Charlie scoffed and turned back to her work. She managed to barely focus on the screen, Castiels words echoing through her mind, before she asked, "Would you be able to bring someone back to life?"

"I am focused entirely on translating to get rid of the Mark of Cain." Rowena said sweetly. "I simply have no time to focus on any other magic or spell."

"You know what I mean, can you bring someone back to life?" Charlie grounded out.

As an answer Rowena reached out and with her fingers delicately turned the pages of the Book of Damned, glancing at the codex as her fingers followed the letters. When she didn't say anything else Charlie shook her head and turned back to her work, she should've guessed that the witch wouldn't tell her anything and she wouldn't give her the satisfaction of asking again.

"There is a spell here, the title does say that it can bring someone back to life." Rowena finally said. "I don't know the ingredients, that will take more time to translate, and with that angel breathing down my neck my attention is completely focused on your Mark of Cain. But," her eyes came up, full of light and a smile tugging at her lips. "It can be done."

The breath left Charlies body at that, at the concept that Sam would be brought back to life without Dean having to sell his soul. Both brothers could be here.

Rowena smiled once more at her and turned back, the moment her head was turned however her smile turned into a deadly smirk.

* * *

Crowley let out a sigh of relief as the summoning stopped. He could taste the blood of the sacrifice clear in his mouth and he quickly drank more of his tea to try to wash it away, the sooner he got rid of it the sooner the pull of the summoning would fade.

He glanced up at Sam once more and saw that the soul was lightly tracing the pattern in the teacup, which was still full of tea.

"Your brother is very stubborn, he keeps trying to summon me." Crowley informed him. "Thinks if he does it enough times I'll eventually answer."

At the mention of his brother Sam looked up at him and stared pleadingly.

"Don't worry, I have no desire to have Dean Winchesters soul running around here. He gets into enough trouble on earth." Crowley said waving away the concern. "You being here is enough trouble for a lifetime and a headache for even longer."

Satisfied that his brother wasn't in danger Sam let his eyes fall back to his lap.

Crowley sat back in his chair, letting his eyes roam over the soul, despite the chains that were wrapped around him he still shined brighter than any soul that Crowley had seen, almost as bright as an angel's grace. The blood and sweat that covered him did nothing to dull the light coming from him and every scar and every wound was healed over but clear as anything on his skin.

There were Enochian letters burned into his skin around his wrists almost like a bracelet that curled up in white and black lines going up his arms. From those lines he could see bits and pieces of grace shining through every few moments, a testament to the time Sam had been Lucifer's vessel and then the time he had spent with both Lucifer and Michael in the cage.

Sam Winchesters soul was scarred, marked, tortured, and riddled with marks of abuse, the weights that were attached to him to the chains and that were dragging him down; some of the chains were embedded into Sam's very skin, leaving bumps and pressing against the skin, along his arms and around his neck almost like a collar.

Every last weight, every last bit of it that was dragging and slowing and bringing Sam down were all self-inflicted. Crowley knew better than to let a single hair to be touched on Sam's head for the time being and as such, he wasn't being tortured by anyone but himself. The weights were all of Sam's self-hatred and the guilt he had carried with himself all these years barred for the world to see and to, quite literally, keep him in place.

And as such that every last piece of hurt and of torture that would be inflicted onto Sam during his time in hell would be self-done and resonating from his own core being there was nothing Crowley could do to prevent that, it was all in Sam's hands and Sam had never made any move to try to get rid of the weights in life, it only made sense for him not to try in death either.

He wanted, needed, to get Sam out of hell. Nothing good would follow a Winchester in hell, and of course it would be Sam Winchester; the one closer to hell than even his brother who has the Mark of Cain and had been a demon not so long ago.

Crowley hadn't just put the Lucifer loyalists away, he had put those away who had clung to the old belief that Sam Winchester would lead them. The words, the title he didn't' dare to say and had forbidden all of the demons, both under his control and the ones locked away, from saying out loud, he didn't even dare to think them so that hell wouldn't hear it.

The ground quacked under their feet once more, becoming stronger than before and lasting longer, and Sam immediately flinched, trying to make himself smaller in his chair. The teacup in his hands started to shake and Crowley realized that the Enochian symbols on Sam's skin were glowing and quite a few chains on his body tightened around their prisoner.

The demon sipped his tea and graciously ignored Sam's lapse of control as Lucifer continued to scream.

 **I should've mentioned, updates for this story is going to be spastic and sometimes long, mainly because I want to take my time with this one and try not to rush it.**

 **I do not own Supernatural.**


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